


Check

by Bogglocity



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Hand & Finger Kink, Self-Indulgent, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, chess is pretty sexy when you think about it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 11:18:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16785916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bogglocity/pseuds/Bogglocity
Summary: A relaxing game of chess doesn't go quite the way Christine intended.





	1. Chapter 1

Christine had chosen chess because she had thought, with a misguided intent, that it would be a relaxing distraction from what had been a particularly exhaustive lesson. The chess table seemed appealing in the neglected corner, with its finely carved ivory pieces collecting a layer of dust. Its appeal only grew when Erik informed her with some reticence that it had been a while since he played. _All the fairer for it,_ she had said with a smile as she dusted each piece in turn. He said nothing further, but helped her all the same. With a pair of filled wineglasses, they eased into their places opposite one another and began.

But even with her partner out of practice, Christine is losing. She thinks, in a barely audible corner of her mind, that she might do better, were they different circumstances, and were he a different partner altogether. She never had this much trouble against Mama Valerius or Raoul or even Nadir—adept as he is—and though she knows that it is in part due to Erik’s natural ability to pick things up with a startling swiftness, she also knows that it is mostly due to the fact that she cannot focus for a second on the pieces in front of her.

How could she possibly? It is bad enough that her belly is warm with wine, cheeks pinkened by the mostly-drained glass, but he has the audacity to be, in one of his rare instances, without his gloves.

She doesn’t remember him taking them off. They had been on during the lesson—she remembers his leather-clad thumb tipping her chin upward, fingers resting featherlight on her jaw to straighten her head. She very distinctly remembers the way they had brushed just a millimeter toward her cheek before he turned on his heel to continue his instruction. She wasn’t afforded a proper view of them, nor has she ever truly been for all of his constant twitching and gesturing with them.

Now they are a chess table’s length away.

The first thing she notices about them are his fingers. They seem longer than she remembered, thinner, knuckles sharp and almost bony. They pluck the pieces up with a surgical precision, not so much as brushing the ones surrounding his target. His movements are smooth, slow and contemplating as he picks up a rook, rolling it between thumb and forefinger in his contemplation before he captures another one of her pieces with a gentle nudge and a click of ivory against ivory. She swallows when he picks up the fallen knight, holding it with the utmost care as though to inspect for any sign of contention before he places it to the side.

“Your move, my dear.”

She snaps from her reverie at his voice, not looking up to him for fear of his catching the prickling heat that grows on her neck and cheeks. She looks to the board properly, jaw tight, trying to assess the current situation, but her eyes keep flicking to the hand that now taps its fingers against the table in a smooth undulation. She shakes her head in an effort to do away with the feathers that seem to be blanketing her brain, turning with a renewed determination to the game.

It is a quick move that she makes, little thought put into its planning before she retreats, fist balling into her skirts at the hum that escapes him. When she hazards to look up, she sees those uneven lips pursed, his other hand cupping his jaw, thumb running along the line of it before returning to tap his bottom lip. Her grip in her skirts goes white-knuckled at the thoughtful twitch at the corner of his mouth and she tears her gaze away and back to the board.

But a barely audible _click-click_ draws her attention from the unmoving game, off to the side where the captured pieces and near-empty wineglasses lie. Her jaw clamps tighter.

The white queen rocks back and forth at the behest of a single lithe finger, balanced and steady and rhythmic with each curling and straightening of the knuckles. The tendons on the back of his hand flex with every minute shift of that finger, starkly visible under thin skin and veins when he pauses only to tap his fingertips on the tabletop once more.

It is only when he picks up the offending piece, however, holding it with middle and ring finger to run his forefinger over the top of the crown that she feels a sharp pang of heat in her belly, her thighs clenching unbidden and her hands all but tearing the fabric at the front of her skirts as she twists them there. She bites down onto her tongue, trying to quench the flush that she is certain must have her looking positively feverish by now. _The wine. It is just the wine._ A proper excuse, perfectly reasonable. She will have a good laugh while he discretely takes the glass away from her, those same fingers curling under the bowl of it while—

_That is quite enough of_ that _, Christine._

Her thought is punctuated by a low ‘ _aha_ ’ from across the table, the queen placed gingerly to its surface before he reaches over the board and in a swift motion, makes his move. No capture, not quite check, but a tricky position all the same. It isn’t what she is focusing on, however. Rather, it is those hands, limber fingers twining and laying, palms down, on the tabletop. When she looks up to his masked face, his eyes are shimmering in an almost triumph behind the shadows of his mask, his lips tugged into the ghost of a smug smile. Thin, uneven, fascinating in the very same way as his hands, and a dangerous little voice in the back of her head keeps repeating the word _tactile_.

“Your move, my dear.”

She hadn’t intended to stand, nor to brace herself with hands flat against the sides of the chess table, nor to lean forward to capture his mouth with hers across that table, yet here she is, feeling the grunt of surprise against her lips and the degree of a sway before he can steady himself. Her heart is thudding painful against her ribs at her recklessness, the logical part of her mind screaming at her to _pull away, pull away right now, blame the wine, stop this instant, Christine,_ and yet her body betrays her in the form of a drag and sweep of the lips, begging without words for him to reciprocate.

There is another second that passes, agonizing before she feels rather than hears a low, rumbling groan from the depths of his chest. And now one of those hands is on the back of her neck, tugging her mouth more firmly to his as they move in tandem, slanting their mouths to deepen the contact, and that pang of heat of before turns into sparks shooting below her navel to collect in the pit of her stomach.

Their lips part with each pass and breath, and she was right, his are so peculiarly tactile, soft and oddly cool but warming against hers. It is a heady pressure, mingling with the taste of wine between them to make the floor positively rock beneath her. She knows if it weren’t for the table keeping her held up, she would fall for the reeling. Her fingers curl under her palms just as his tighten in her hair, pulling a whimper from her throat.

All at once, he stands, never losing a second of contact, and she hears chess pieces scattering as he bears forward over the table, desperation heightening, another groan vibrating into her core as calloused fingers rake against her scalp. His breath is hot against her and for just a millisecond, he pulls himself away to breathe her name before diving in again.

It is the slick, deceptively hot glide of a tongue against hers that has her eyes snapping open, has her gasping and pulling back in realization of what is happening. She all but stumbles back, nearly falling into her chair, panting for breath as she meets wide amber eyes, pupils blown. She doesn’t know what it is that she sees in them—surprise, she recognizes, awe, the sleeping remnants of the wine, but there is something she can’t quite trace that has her holding herself up against the arm of the chair before turning down in a rush to the wineglasses on the table.

“The glasses,” she says, cursing silently the breathlessness of her words. “I can take care of them.”

“Christine.”

She ignores her name, the hoarseness with which it is spoken making her shudder to her toes, and hurries to the kitchen with eyes turned soundly forward and away.


	2. Chapter 2

The water does nothing to cool Christine’s face, nor to slow her hammering pulse, but she splashes it on her cheeks again for good measure. It wets the loose locks of hair that have fallen from her pins but she finds it increasingly difficult to care as each passing second gives her more and more opportunity to think on the absolute tangle she has gone and gotten herself into.

His _hands_. Of all images to flout propriety over, of all aspects of anatomy to make one lose one’s good sense, and her body has chosen something as innocuous as a pair of hands. Granted, they are beautiful hands, very skilled hands—and that word, _skilled_ , has her splashing her face again before grabbing a clean dishrag. She cradles her face with it, half to dry herself and half in the hopes that perhaps when she lowers it down again, it will instead be her coverlet that she is peeking out from, and that this will have all been a dream that she will keep to herself to the end of days.

It is to her dismay that she lowers the rag to find herself, not bathed in the first filtering rays of morning light, but rather still staring into a half-filled sink in the windowless kitchen beneath the Paris Opera. _Presumably_ , she reminds herself, _with a man you’ve just kissed for no proper reason still standing between yourself and the door._

_Oh, how will you get out of this one, Christine?_

“Christine.”

She expected Erik to follow her, but not so soon, and the sudden awareness of his presence has the dishrag twisting tight in her grip, her heart stopping before returning to beat in double-time. If there is an ounce of wine remaining in her system, it does an awful job at herding her wayward nerves. For a brief moment, she wishes she had poured herself another glass.

The clack of shoes against tile forces her to steel herself, however, and so she sets the dishrag aside, hesitating only a second more before turning to face him.

He stops still in the middle of the kitchen, rigid and unmoving. Beneath the shadows of his mask, she can’t see his eyes, but she knows that they are fixed to her face, the burn of them prickling on her still-flushed cheeks. He says nothing but she sees his adam’s apple bob when he swallows.

There is a sharp squeeze to her ribs when he takes another smooth stride toward her. Then another, closing the distance in seconds.

She doesn’t realize that she has backed herself against his approach until he is just in front of her and she feels the edge of the sink against her back. She glances over his body in an anxious appraisal, trying to read some semblance of purpose from his now too-stiff posture, from the way those hands—good heavens, still without their gloves—tense before forcibly relaxing again. She needn’t wonder long on his intent, however, when he speaks again.

“I believe I am owed some explanation.” His voice is a rasping hush, a tone she has never heard before that sends the tiniest breeze of a shiver to tingle the back of her neck, even as he seems to make a protracted effort to keep it neutral.

“You are,” she whispers. _The wine. Blame the wine._ But the word sticks in her vocal cords despite her swallowing against it. Non-thoughts beat against her mind in an attempt to think of something, anything, but to no avail. He is waiting now, mouth drawn into a thin line, and her heart hammers at the combination of proximity and building awareness of every aspect of him.

She is far _too_ aware of the winding tension in his shoulders, the stiffness that spreads down his arm to the shifting muscles in his wrist. She is far too aware of him in general, of the space he occupies and the electric aura he exudes. But the more the seconds tick by, the more she finds she prefers that kinetic proximity to the alternative. The more the seconds tick by, the more she can feel the residual tingling on her lips, on the back of her neck, at the roots of her hair.

“Very well, then,” he finally says, voice gruff and clipped as he turns halfway from her. She blinks, heart leaping into her throat when his hand snatches hers up and he turns fully to lead her. “I think it best I take you back.”

“Wait.” She punctuates the word with a squeeze of the hand, a gentle tug, and he falls still once more in his mid-step. The crackling silence returns between them, her hold on his hand careful but unyielding.

It is with a slow pull that she draws him back to turn to her, the coolness of his skin against hers flicking whatever impulsivity had taken over her just moments prior back into life. His eyes lock with hers once more, flaring with the same unknowable emotion as before, that same question. At a dearth for an answer, she takes his hand in both of hers now, lifting it upward. She fully expects him to tear it away.

To her relief, he doesn’t. She can feel an encroaching question in the way his chest rises in a more slowly-taken breath, in the way his mouth opens and shuts again. But he doesn’t voice it. He simply watches her in that burning mixture of curiosity and confusion.

She swallows against the lump in her throat as she keeps her eyes away from his, instead focusing on the angle and jut of his knuckles as she runs her thumbs over them. His skin is oddly supple there, thin but soft and pliant from use. Beneath his hand, she trails a finger along his palm to his wrist, where she feels his pulse racing despite his stillness, then back to his fingers once more. She tightens her fingers around his, and for a half-second, she thinks she feels him do the same.

“I apologize for interrupting our game,” she finally murmurs, lifting his hand toward her face, looking back into his eyes. The knot in her belly tightens and flips at the way they widen, at the way his thumb just barely brushes against her skin as if in unconscious reflex to her tiny step forward. Her earlier panic is gone now, replaced wholly by his presence and by the huff of breath she hears as she shifts his hand to press her lips to his palm. “I… seem to have gotten distracted.”

She just barely has a chance to hear the short, sharp exhale, just barely has the chance to push forward from the sink before his lips descend onto hers.

There is no chess table in the way now, no obstruction to keep her from pressing her body to his or from angling her mouth just so or from gripping properly into his lapels. Fingers tangle in her hair, her pins falling free, pulling her closer, and this time, when a tongue seeks pleading entrance, her own darts out to meet it.

She should have expected that his hands would be unable to sit still, raking through her hair, down her neck, across her shoulders, to her back. Restless swirls of his fingers, broad sweeps of his palms, pulling and pressing, never stopping in one place for so much as a second while all she can do is wrap her arms around his neck and breathe in his helpless moan. She is hyperaware of every millimeter touched, at once filled with a dizzying haze and an overwhelming clarity that destroys any chance she might have had at blaming the wine.

It is in that guiltless clarity that she grabs one of those wandering hands and lifts it to her breast.

She isn’t sure if the sound he emits at the charting of this new territory is an almost-word or a strangled groan. It doesn’t matter when he bears down harder over her, when his hand comes alive again to knead through too many layers of fabric. It isn’t near enough, but the thrill of it has her whimpering into his mouth, puffing a breath through her nose. He redoubles his efforts at the sound, hand at the small of her back sliding up to better arch her against him, and she curses every thread of silk that keeps that sweeping thumb from her skin.

He pulls from her mouth, kisses trailing downward, jaw, neck, collarbone, and when he speaks against the dip in her throat, hand resting static, she can feel his lips moving against her.

“Where else?”

A sharp shiver plunges low and deep at his voice, still that gravelly whisper, but softer, more desperate. The pressure at her breast, at her back renders her unable to move, unable to speak. It is only when a tongue darts out to trace the column of her throat that she finally returns to action, grabbing him by the wrist and thrusting his hand downward to edge the waistband of her skirts.

His jump is violent at the implication, and she isn’t sure if his pulling her harder to him is intentional or a reflex, but he trips a step forward in compensation all the same. She is suddenly against the sink again, an impeccably-shined shoe now inadvertently keeping her skirts pinned in place, tugging at them just enough to make them feel like that much more of a hindrance.

He is frozen for half a second longer than she can bear, but she hasn’t let go of him, hasn’t given him a chance to question her intention, and so, now with a near-imperceptible tremble, he glides along the top of her waistband. A test, she thinks, to see if she intends to pull him away. She doesn’t, pressing him harder in an unveiled attempt at encouraging him onward, and with every tiny stretch of distance gained toward the fastenings, he hurries just a little bit faster.

By the time he makes it to the buttons, both hands are scrabbling against her, his mouth working with a hunger against her neck. His fingers are suddenly clumsy, but she doesn’t move to help, clawing at his lapels, pulling his mouth back to hers to kiss him anew. The first button comes loose and something akin to a growl sounds in the depths of his chest as the second follows suit.

The skirts are loose now, tugging down just an inch where his shoe keeps them pinned, and his hands glide along the edges of the waistband. He skates along the edge of the corset underneath, rolling the linen of her chemise between his fingers, and pure instinct has her hips pressing forward in a plea for more.

His courage falters, but only for a second before her teeth tug at his bottom lip, and his hand thrusts past the waistband, down her hip, letting the fabric bunch and threaten to fall away. When calloused fingertips find the bare skin of her thigh, the contact is electric and she gasps into his mouth. Another growl, hands forming claws before, with a sharp tug, the skirts fall away.

She isn’t sure if it is the sudden draft of the underground chill against her legs that gives her goosebumps or the sudden realization that she has no idea what on earth she intended once she got to this point. All she knows is that she is shifting, kicking the skirts unceremoniously to the side, and that he is helping with a sweep of the foot, and suddenly he is that much closer to her, hips almost pressed into hers as he finds a hold against her bodice. It is another newfound boldness that has her grabbing his waistcoat beneath his coat, tugging him hard toward her so that now they _are_ pressed together, one of his knees between hers, and the friction of alien fabric against suddenly all-too-bare skin has her shuddering.

Another burst of courage when his fingers bunch the stretch of chemise at her hip as if in assessment, tugging it up just an inch. A whisper of his name, a plea against his mouth. She feels all of his muscles twitch, his knee pressing firmer between her legs now and she isn’t sure if it is intentional, the way it forces them apart just a degree, but it isn’t her focus when he slides his hand lower, lower until he passes her chemise and ends up with fingertips against the waistband of her drawers.

Too close now, too close and not close enough as he either hesitates or teases her with the too-light, skimming touch just where her skin is waiting beneath useless linen. Perhaps out of impatience, perhaps of their own accord, her hips squirm in search of further contact. They both moan at the friction, a sound that turns into quickened breaths as she pulls his masked face back to hers to be able to kiss him, deeper and with dizzying force.

The feeling of his lips—still so tactile, still so bizarre—almost distracts her from the fresh brush of fingertip to bare skin, almost distracts her from him slipping beneath the waistband, almost distracts her from their mutual shudder at his palm pressing flat to the swell of her bare hip. But with every new stretch of territory gained, every exponential upward curve of boldness, her nerves thrum louder until he is massaging into her skin and they are practically screaming out for _more, more, more of that._

It is when a wayward thumb presses into the divot of her hip, sweeping just at the edge of the crook of her thigh that she can take no more and she grabs him by the wrist once more. Her patience is waning and she slides his hand, quick and desperate, until it presses with palm flat beneath her navel, lower, lower. He goes rigid, other hand digging into her side when he meets with the bed of curls there.

He pulls away from her mouth, her name scraping out in question. She speaks his in return, another plea, higher, more insistent, and she opens her eyes just to see his own darkened to a low-burning gold within the shadows of his mask, deep and molten and overtaken. She releases her hold on him but he doesn’t retreat, even as she anchors herself with a grip at his arms, holding her breath.

It feels like an eternity before he trails downward, before those impossibly long fingers dip lower and a high whimper escapes her at the electrifying friction of calloused fingertips in waiting wetness. He goes still, but she still feels the pressure, the tiny natural shift that comes with their shallow breaths, and without realizing that she has begun to do it, she rocks against his hand, begging him to move.

It is another one of those silent groans that reverberates into her to signal the return of his faculties. The slick slide of fingers, achingly slow, shoots those hot ember sparks through every nerve ending as he explores, as she directs him unconsciously with only the tilt and shift of her hips. He watches her with a fixed intent through each stroke and she tries to maintain the shared gaze but when he finds precisely where it is that she burns most, she can’t, her mouth falling open, eyes drifting shut, head tipping back.

Every languid pass of those musician’s fingers becomes more attuned, tracing the sounds she makes, delineating every whimper until he finds a rhythm, until he has her toes curling and her legs shaking and all she can think of is that careful manipulation of the white queen, the back and forth tip, the caress of forefinger to crown, that word, _skilled_ , echoing and echoing again in her skull. When another trembling moan escapes her, lips descend to her throat in worship, unheard words tickling against it before kisses blaze a path from the column of it to her pulse. Too slow to reach the peak of it, too light for release, but too quick to ignore, too firm to not feel the coil winding closer.

There is a stutter in his attentions, a halt that gives her just a second to catch her breath, a second to gather her senses enough to whine. Before she can do either, however, that studious hand delves lower, fingers deeper until they find her core, pausing there as if to ask permission. She covers his hand with her own, pressing him closer, and she hopes he can understand her meaning because words are far too complex for the haze in her head. _Please, please—_

A single digit enters and she tenses at the foreign sensation, bucks herself against his hand with a knot of gasp and whimper. She lifts on her toes, burying her face in his neck when he begins in earnest, finger curling deep within her, caressing inside of her as his thumb works against her, faster now, firmer. _Skilled_ , the word ricocheting through her mind until it is replaced solely with his name on her lips as that dexterous hand unravels every searing thread of pleasure from her that it can.

One more circling stroke, one sucking tug of her earlobe and it is fire on gunpowder, blazing through every vein in sparks of red and gold, and all she can do is cry his name and claw into the wool at his forearm, legs going numb beneath her. An arm pulls her from the sink, wrapping around her waist to keep her steady, slowing but not stopping as the crackles fizzle out through her tingling toes and into the floor. She buries herself into his shoulder, ignoring the scratch of fabric and the digging of his mask against her neck as she comes down.

“Oh, Christine…” comes the breathy whisper as her shaking subsides and his hand retreats to better wrap his arms around her fully. She is putty against him, the tension of her muscles gone liquid. “What on earth has possessed you…?”

She shakes her head, unable to conjure up an explanation—and what sort would she give? _Your hands are beautiful. I needed them to touch me. I needed you to touch me._ Despite all that just took place, the idea of voicing it feels altogether too wanton and so she simply nuzzles deeper into his neck, kissing the skin there. He shudders and she feels a hitch in his chest, his grip tightening.

She only just now becomes aware of a pressure against her lower abdomen, a new thrill shooting down beneath her navel at the feeling, before he pulls himself away, turning from her and toward the discarded skirts.

“It… is getting late,” he says, tone suddenly choppy as she blinks after him. He lifts the skirts, dusting them off, keeping his eyes soundly averted from her as he does. When he seems satisfied with the cleanliness of the garments, he turns back to her, but she doesn’t miss the way he keeps his eyes fixed to her face as though not daring to look any lower.

He offers her the skirts, and the moment she hesitantly takes them, he turns on his heel toward the door, back straight—too straight—and fingers twitching as he clasps his hands behind his back.

“Inform me if— _when_ you intend to return aboveground.”

Before she can so much as blink, he leaves the kitchen like a shadow. She watches after him, mouth dry and mind stuck to a stop. She glances down at the fabric bunched in her hands, then back to the doorframe. Lingering sensation keeps her heartbeat racing.

And before she can stop herself, she drops it all to the ground and follows after him.


End file.
